Lobstah Rolls

I can understand why lobsters used to be prison food.

Without context, they look like giant seafaring roaches. They've got no discernible eyes, they sort of drift and crawl like oceanic zombies, and like: the claws, man. The CLAWS.

And that's even before you attempt to eat the sucker.

Of course, it takes a nutcracker and a biology degree to get the meat out. Of course a single lobster isn't enough to fill you up; to get enough calories to subsist on, you probably need two or three per meal, and that can take HOURS, especially when you're trying to break the shell with your bare hands.

Pretty sure they didn't have nutcrackers in prison.

But like most pain-in-the-ass peasant foods, rich people co-opted it after some point and cheerfully ruined it for everyone through overfishing and raising prices.

This season, a lobster roll costs about $31. Screw you, rich people.

That doesn't mean I won't pay it though.

A good lobster roll is summer in ten overflowing bites, a juxtaposition of ultimate luxury (lobster meat, butter) with the absolute lowest common denominators in food (a supermarket hot dog bun, mayonnaise.) It tastes like the ocean but sweeter, like a perfect kiss, tender and juicy and sparkling with lemon.

If you fail to toast the bun, don't talk to me.

If you're from Connecticut, you serve your lobstah roll warm, kissed with melted butter and a spritz of lemon, on a toasted bun. It's a good sandwich. Possibly even a great one.

But the true lobstah roll is a Maine creation. The meat is served chilled, tossed with the lightest bit of mayonnaise, seasoned with little more than salt and pepper and MAYBE a skosh of celery if you're into that, then spooned onto open leaves of butter lettuce and NESTLED into that toasted - always toasted - cradle of carby goodness.

Warm bun - crisp on the surface, and soft all the way through. Cool, sweet, juicy lobster meat. The unctuous, briny bite. The velvety, rich bliss of well-applied mayo. The little green crunch of lettuce.

You can find lobster rolls on the fanciest menus in Boston or Portland, and they're not disappointing. They're fine. Good, even. They always toast their buns, at least.

But the best rolls - the true experience - comes from a shack. A space barely big enough for the saltwater tank where the lobsters live until they're nobly sacrificed for the good of summer, a chalkboard menu with an ever-shifting "market price." Maybe, if they're really good, they'll offer you a bucket of steamer clams.

The less-good ones offer fried shrimp, too. I'm sorry; I don't make the rules. It's just the truth.

Bonus points if your shack is somewhere off a Maine blue highway with a bunch of mismatched chairs on a rickety old dock. It's just better if you can smell the sea.

You'll want to try and eat it like a hot dog, and you'll fail. It's okay. Pick up those gorgeous pieces of claw meat in your fingertips and pop 'em in. Savor that little piece of ocean. I won't even judge if you use a fork for the first couple of bites until you can manage to fit the whole thing in your mouth. A good lobster roll will be so piled high that it'll take a minute to eat it down to a reasonable size.

Those who say lobster rolls are overrated have a point; there's plenty of crustaceans in the sea, and there's no earthly reason we should cling to this overpriced cockroach. I get it.

But for just two months out of the year, I get to take a bite out of the ocean. It's much a part of summer as sunscreen and campfires. It goes hand-in-hand with ice pops and swimsuits.

Now toss me a nutcracker and some mayonnaise. And somebody bring me a toaster.

Kudos to Misty Rae's Lobster Roll story, which inspired this one!